What If?

by Shari Low

  I tried to salvage my appearance. After travelling for two days, my eyes were swollen and my hair resembled a burst sofa. I slapped on some foundation, ran a brush through my unruly mane, changed my clothes and went to join Jack. As I entered the bar, I realised that I had a welcoming committee. The other nine expat managers in the hotel had come to view the new exhibit. Jack introduced me.

  There were two Australians, Dan and Arnie, both food and beverage managers. Dan was in his fifties and looked like a happy soul, chuckling away at nothing in particular. Arnie was younger, maybe late thirties, and seemed nervous and twitchy, his fingers the colour of burnt toast as he smoked a Dunhill down to the tip.

  Heinz was the Austrian head chef and he and his assistant, Hans, both had red hair, huge stomachs and talked in utterly endearing lilted tones.

  There were two engineers, both American and somewhere around middle age. Chuck was tall, handsome and – obviously no stranger to the gym – he could have passed for Tom Cruise’s dad. Linden was the complete opposite: short, rotund and chubby faced.

  The General Manager was a distinguished, greying Englishman called Harry Southfield. As he pulled out a chair and beckoned me to sit, I immediately felt comfortable. But not for long.

  Standing just apart from the others were two fierce looking women. Jack introduced them as Ritza and Olga, who were responsible for the maintenance and housekeeping in the hotel. One German and one Russian, I guessed they were probably both in their late forties and as they stood there with their arms folded, sneering in my general direction, they made me feel as welcome as a fart in a tent. I swear I heard them growl.

  ‘Well, Jack,’ Ritza snorted, her voice heavily accented, ‘we can see now why you employed her.’ With that, she grabbed Olga and they stormed off, furniture trembling as they swept past. Even the pot plants shook nervously. Somehow, I knew we weren’t going to be best friends.

  We had a few drinks to celebrate my arrival. As I studied my new colleagues, it suddenly struck me. They all – except Dan – looked exhausted and depressed, like school teachers at the end of term. I contemplated holding up an airline ticket to anywhere and seeing how high they would jump in desperation to flee this place. It couldn’t be that bad, could it? At least there was Jack.

  ‘C’mon, Carly, let me show you Champagne,’ he suggested.

  I followed him through a maze of corridors, each one less grand than the one before, until we reached an annexe at the back of the hotel, so far from the main reception that it must have been in the next town. Champagne, it transpired, had its own entrance at the back of the complex. As we entered, I gasped out loud. And not in a good way. The club was the biggest dump I had ever seen. I tripped over the holes in the carpet as we weaved between broken chairs and ring-marked tables. The walls were dark brown, the ceiling was dark brown and the furniture matched. There was not a glimmer of glamour or gorgeousness here.

  I scanned the room. The staff were shoddily dressed in ancient, sequinned floor length brown dresses, all badly fitting and in need of repair. They lounged around, some smoking in the corner, none of them paying any attention to the customers. And no wonder. The room was packed with women wearing short, tight-fitting but tatty clothing. Some of them were beautiful, some just pretty, but they all had the same hardened, bored expressions under their expertly applied-with-a-trowel make-up. What had I let myself in for?

  I examined the men in the club. Jack explained that they were a mixture of local entrepreneurs, Taiwanese and Japanese and Hong Kong businessmen, all of them smoking like trains. Some of them were with women, while others sat and leered at the dance floor where a few of the girls danced in groups with blank, numb, depressed expressions. This place didn’t need a manager, it needed to be closed down

  Jack spoke again, disturbing my thoughts.

  ‘The girls are escorts and here they call them “chickens”. The staff detest them as they’re considered to be lowlifes. As for the men, well, let’s just say that I’m glad that employees in China don’t sue for sexual harassment or our customers would spend their lives in court.’

  ‘Jack, this place is unbelievable. Peter Stringfellow couldn’t make it work. How did it get into this state?’

  He at least had the decency to look a tad embarrassed. He hadn’t exactly given me a full picture of just how dilapidated this club was.

  ‘There are only two nightclubs in Shanghai. This one was leased by the hotel to a Hong Kong businessman. He used it as a base for his operations when he was in China. We, in the hotel, just took the rental money every month and ignored this place. It’s only now that we’ve revoked his lease and resumed control of it that we’ve realised just how bad it’s become.’

  ‘What happened to the Hong Kong businessman?’

  ‘Life imprisonment for drug smuggling.’

  Not a surprise.

  ‘Jack, I think I’ll stay here for a while, if you don’t mind. I’d like to watch what’s going on and see what I can come up with.’

  ‘Sure. Meet me in my office tomorrow morning at ten. Ask at reception, they’ll show you the way.’

  I sat in a corner for an hour, to strange looks from staff and customers alike. I looked for positives. The size of the room was good. Properly designed, it could easily hold two hundred people. There were plenty of staff, four behind the bar and about twenty waitresses, none of whom looked like they wanted to be there. The sound system was adequate, although obviously wasn’t calibrated properly for the room. The most interesting thing, though, was the amount of money being spent. The customers all had bottles of brandy and whisky on their tables, and these were being replenished frequently. Only the single females were buying drinks by the glass.

  The noise of a chair smashing down on to a table jolted me back. Six men in the opposite corner were brawling, arms and legs flailing. I looked around for a reaction. There was none. Six men killing each other and nobody gave them a second glance. It was obviously a common occurrence. The fight eventually blew itself out, the two losers staggering out, while the four victors ordered another bottle of brandy. The staff swept the broken glass and furniture further into the corner, with not so much as a raised eyebrow.

  Next morning, bleary-eyed from jet lag and traumatised by my night at the club, I went to my meeting with Jack. What were my options? Throw in the towel, admit I’d made a mistake and go running home? Call Tom and beg him to take me back? Nope. Absolutely not. Whether it was pride, delusion or optimism, there was no way I was quitting.

  Jack looked up sheepishly as I entered.

  ‘Well, doctor, what’s the diagnosis?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s terminal, Jack. Amputation and a severe dose of radiation couldn’t save that place. You’re going to have to put it out of its misery. Give me a week to suss out the city and the people here and I’ll have a proposal for you.’

  He agreed. I set off, as Clive James had done before me, to explore the city. I staked out the hotels, the bars, the shops and the one other nightclub. It wasn’t any different to ours – same dated interior and clientele. I wandered down the Bund, Shanghai’s main street, in the early evenings to watch the tourists. I approached the embassies, all the Western companies with offices in the area and phoned the newspapers and tourist offices. I started to feel encouraged. The right people were here, we just had to get them into the club. I began to think that this just might be a mountain I could climb.

  I outlined my plan to Jack. He sanctioned all of it except the changing of the staff, explaining that there were no procedures to fire staff in China. A job there was a job for life. I was going to have to work with the existing team. That evening, I went to speak to them. They eyed me suspiciously as Jack introduced me as the new manager. They didn’t say a word as we informed them that we were closing the club for two months, but we would still expect them to come to work every day for training.

  ‘Can they speak English?’ I whispered to Jack, as yet another question I’d asked had gone unanswered.<
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  ‘Of course. They just don’t want to talk to you.’

  Great. One week there and they already hated me. Had my mother and previous boyfriends tipped them off?

  A week later, we closed the club, bringing in a team of builders, electricians, lighting engineers, sound engineers and decorators. Our budget was limited, but I was determined to make the most of the place. We stripped the club back to a shell and started from scratch. I wanted to create a very classy impression – lots of gold, mirrors, with rich animal-print fabrics, overstuffed sofas and marble tables. We installed a lighting rig, modified the sound system and re-sited the DJ booth from a side cupboard to centre stage. The bar was re-covered with a mirrored front panel and top, bar stools positioned in front. Marble columns were sited to break up the room, each one with gold leaves entwining it.

  To attract the expat crowd, the most important thing was an expat DJ. Jack recommended an entertainment agency in Singapore, so I contacted them and gave them the specification. Within a day, they had faxed over the CVs of three DJs (a Brit, an American and a French guy) who were available. I selected the one with the most credible experience and the best demo tape and enlisted his services. I was assured he would be there in time for the re-opening.

  There were two major tasks left: the staff and marketing. I set the staff to task, helping the decorators and cleaners to keep them busy, while I concentrated on the PR. They still weren’t bursting into song when they saw me coming, but I was too busy with my other priority to worry about that yet. I had fliers printed and circulated them round every expat office and embassy in the city. I wrote copy for the tourist magazine, the English newspaper and the hotel bedroom information booklets. I had posters in gold frames strategically placed in the hotel corridors and contacted all the airlines offering free tickets for their flight crews.

  I now knew why the other expat managers in the hotel had all looked so knackered when I‘d met them. Running a hotel of this size (1,000 bedrooms and 1,000 staff) was a mammoth task. Everyone worked flat out for fifteen hours a day and was on call for the other nine.

  With three weeks to go, I turned my attention to the staff. I called a meeting and to say that they were frosty was an understatement.

  I started by showing them their new uniforms. For the girls, stunning red silk dresses, high necked, floor length with splits at each side. Elegant and classy. For the barmen, red ties and waistcoats with a white evening shirt and black trousers. I waited for their reaction, but it wasn’t a long pause. Their faces lit up and they dived on the fabrics, holding them up to the mirrors as they posed. Ray of hope, number one.

  Then I told them of my plans for the club, emphasising how important they were to the success. One of the girls, Lily (they had all chosen English names when they joined the hotel) listened carefully. I had watched her over the previous few weeks, always working diligently and completing any task I set her. She was just over five foot tall, with waist length black hair and cheekbones that you could ski off. She was stunning. Her English was excellent and she seemed to garner respect from the other girls. I decided she would be the assistant manager. It had already been explained to me that all the hotel staff received the same salary, regardless of position, so the only reward for promotion was more responsibility, more hassle and more work. I hoped that Lily would embrace the challenge and was relieved when she did. Another beacon of optimism.

  We allocated the duties in the outlet – hostesses, cashiers, waitresses – trying to meet everyone’s preferences where we could. In the main, they seemed happy with their roles. Third little nugget of positivity!

  I then set about training them in meeting, greeting, serving and attending to the guests. Gradually, they warmed to me as I tried to get to know them all individually. Every day I would separate them into two groups: one group role-playing as guests, the other serving them. They learned quickly and by two nights before the grand opening, when we had a small staff gathering to celebrate the completion of the refurbishment and thank them for all their work, we were ready.

  I’d just served the first glass of non-alcoholic punch (the girls didn’t drink alcohol) when an apparition filled the doorway. He was five foot ten, with blonde curly hair cut short at the sides and long at the back, wearing black leather trousers and a white vest over his skinny frame. He wore more jewellery than H. Samuels and his jaws chewed on gum as he swaggered towards me. He looked like the founder member of the Bee Gees fan club.

  ‘I’m Zac Storm, babe,’ he announced, taking my hand as he bowed to kissed it. ‘DJ to the stars.’

  Oh. Dear. God.

  ‘Show me the decks and I’ll get spinning.’

  I’d rather have shown him the door and let him get walking. The staff looked on in barely concealed amazement. Zac mistook it for adoration.

  ‘All right, goddessess?’ he winked at them.

  They nodded in bemused silence.

  As he waltzed up to the DJ booth, carrying his record case, I gave the girls a weak smile.

  Lily spoke up.

  ‘Miss Carly, maybe I be wrong, but he looks like a… What is right word? Oh yes, he looks like a cockhead.’

  I cackled with laughter and surprise. I’d never heard any of the girls swear. They were always impeccably mannered and reserved.

  ‘A dickhead, Lily,’ I corrected her through the giggles. ‘And I think you could be right.’

  Zac stopped the music and dimmed the lights. At least he knew his way around a mixing desk, I thought. There was prolonged silence. On second thoughts, maybe he didn’t. I was just about to send him back and demand a refund under a law that prohibits impersonating a DJ, when the spotlights flashed onto the dance floor. There was a rumble from the speakers, then James Brown’s ‘I Feel Good’, so loud it could wake every guest in the hotel. I raised an eyebrow. Maybe this guy wouldn’t be such a disaster after all.

  The next day, I joined the other managers at lunch for the first time. With the exception of Jack, who was taking a keen interest in the refurbishment, I’d had no time to hang out with them over the previous weeks, too busy with my opening preparations to think about socialising.

  Chuck, Linden, Dan and Arnie had popped in every day for a quick chat and to see how I was doing and I looked forward to their visits. It was great to speak to anyone who understood what I said first time around. In saying that, my staff were showing distinct signs of Scottish accents. Only yesterday, I’d heard Lily call the painter a ‘tosser’. She was a quick learner.

  As I placed my napkin over my lap, I covered the noise of Olga’s growling with an invitation to the opening the next night. I also took the guys up on their offer to take me out and show me the local sights. That night would be the last night off I’d have for the foreseeable future, so I happily accepted. It was time to sample the hidden delights of my new home.

  Dan, Arnie, Chuck, Linden and Jack whisked me into a taxi.

  ‘Where are we going? Somewhere glam, I hope.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Linden replied. ‘It’s very glam.’

  Twenty minutes later, we drew into a dingy back alley and they ushered me out. I looked up at a dilapidated sign over a blacked out shopfront. ‘The Angel Bar’. It didn’t look very heavenly to me. We went inside and I took an involuntary sharp intake of breath. It was a dive. It looked like a front room from the forties. Which was probably the last time it was decorated. I was rooted to the spot, but I wasn’t sure if that was through shock or the fact that my feet were stuck to the floor. In a corner was a makeshift bar, with a wizened old Chinese woman behind it. The guys introduced me.

  ‘This is Mama-San.’

  This was obviously a test, I decided. Would I stay and drink in a total hovel? I suddenly realised that I hadn’t had a drink for two months and I needed one now. Badly!

  ‘I’ll have a tequila please, Jack. Make it a double. And a straw, please,’ I laughed as I received a standing ovation. I’d passed the test. I was now officially ‘one of the boys’.
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  We slammed ourselves into a state of giddiness, the banter flying. The guys had me in stitches with their stories of working here and I returned the favour with tales of my disasters over the years.

  By midnight, I was speaking fluent Chinese. Or Swahili. It was difficult to tell.

  The next evening, I had a sore head and a cramping stomach, which at least took my mind off my worries that our opening night would be a total flop. I was in no mood for Zac’s smarmy chat so I pushed him into the DJ booth and ordered him not to leave it until the end of the night.

  The lights dimmed. James Brown was back with ‘It’s a Man’s World’, just as Jack stopped by.

  ‘How’s the head?’ he asked.

  ‘Feels like it’s had a frontal lobotomy without an anaesthetic. I’m pretty sure that stuff we were drinking last night could fuel rockets. What about you?’

  ‘Same. I want to take it off and wash it out with Alka-Seltzer.’

  ‘Jack, tell me that tonight’s going to be great. I need some positive reassurance.’

  ‘Carly, it’ll be okay. And even if tonight isn’t too busy, you’ll get there. Look at this place. You’ve done a great job. Once word gets out, you’ll have them knocking down the doors to get in.’

  I looked around. He was right, the club did look great. Now all I needed were the people to fill it. Jack went off on his rounds of all the other food and beverage outlets in the hotel, while I checked the staff were in position. The girls looked beautiful in their uniforms, with their black hair tied up and held in place with ornamental chopsticks, their make-up carefully applied. I beamed at them. I could see that they were all excited and nervous.

  ‘You all look great. I’m really proud of you.’ Oh bugger, I was getting emotional. This always happened when I was hung-over. Get a grip, Cooper.